


my flesh and blood / oh my baby, my soul

by SbiderSlut (BlackCoffeeCat)



Series: Inceste de Citron ‘Verse [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Breeding Kink, Dirty Talk, Emotional Sex, Felching, Feminization, First Time, Harley and Peter are Twins, Incest, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, Multi, One (1) Powerpuff Girls Reference?, Parent/Child Incest, Rimming, Sibling Incest, Smut, Snowballing, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism, but it's consensual, harley and peter are 18+, well it's peter's first time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2019-11-23 14:17:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18152951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackCoffeeCat/pseuds/SbiderSlut
Summary: ma chair et mon sang / oh mon bébé mon âmeA father's love knows no bounds, especially when he has two darling sons to share it with.--In which Harley is a rascal, Peter is sweet as honey venom, and Tony hopelessly bends to the whims of his two favorite boys.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started out with no incest. But then, my brain just started chanting 'BioDad Tony, BioDad Tony,' and I caved. There's just so much more dynamic and dilemma this way. 
> 
> I feel like I should say this anyway -- if you don't like incest, now is the time to turn back. You're not gonna find any mental peace here. Consider yourself warned <3 <3
> 
> For those of you who are here for the hell-party, I hope you enjoy!!
> 
> (Lyrics are a vague translation from Lemon Incest by Serge and Charlotte Gainsbourg)

Harley and Peter are vastly different entities, Tony always thinks. Different as brothers, different as twins, different as a troublesome pair of college freshmen. ( _Or, they’re vastly different problems_ , Tony’s brain helpfully supplies.) Which is a healthy thing to recognize, considering how he raised them with the utmost dedication.

Oh, and how he’s balls-deep in one of them at the moment.

“Is that all you’ve got, old man?” Harley goads, a lock of sweaty hair plastered to his forehead and lips stretched in a downright evil smirk. _Brat_. “You gonna fuck me harder, or am I gonna have to find someone else to finish the job?”

“You’re such a little asshole,” Tony grunts out as he shifts his position minutely and hastens the pistoning of his hips, slamming in and out of his son with increased precision. “When did you become such a menace?” Satisfaction swells in Tony when Harley’s smirk drops just for a second as a wrecked, hoarse moan falls from his lips. “You like that, baby? You can talk all the shit you want, but nobody will ever fuck you this good, will they? Not your other old men with their thin wallets and out-of-season suits. Nobody knows you as well as I do. Nobody knows what makes you tick more than I do.”

 _Nobody has loved you unconditionally as I do_.

(He doesn’t often say that part often, anymore. That’s the thing about him and Harley. They fuck like maniacs, and they do love each other -- deeply, profoundly, from the bottoms of their wells of defense mechanisms -- but they never say it in their day-to-day lives. Their mutual language is emotional constipation.)

“Isn’t that your favorite part about me?” Harley taunts, even as Tony’s renewed vigor and sharper angle breaks Harley out in a fresh sheen of sweat and makes his eyes glaze in a way which indicates that he’s just short of gone. “My tight little asshole? Don’t you love fucking me loose and sloppy like the old pervert that you are? Filling your son to the brim with your cum? Watching it drip out of me? Licking it up like the dog that you are?”

With Harley, it’s always a game of pushing the younger boy past the brink, into a daze where he loses his ability to be a dick. Tony loves taming his boy like this. He lives for it. With both of his hands, Tony roughly hikes Harley’s ass further off the mattress so he can hold his son in place as he pounds away with a steady rhythm he knows will drive his darling boy to the edge and keep him suspended there. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Harley pants out, lips stretching in an open-mouthed smile. Both of his hands fall to the sides to grip at the bedsheets in overwhelming ecstasy, and he slides his crossed legs further up the small of Tony’s back, so he’s split even wider along the girth of Tony’s cock as it nails Harley’s prostate with brutal efficiency. “Fuck yes, right there, that angle, _fuck meeee_.”

There’s something to be said for how lewd and unapologetically obscene Harley can be -- obnoxious and shameless and downright demanding. It’s _easy_. The kid has always been a brat and needy as hell from when he was a little tyke; this is just one more facet of that, and it’s hot as hell.

(Not at all like soft, sweet Peter, Tony knows. They’re two equally filthy ends of a delicious spectrum that Tony’s lizard brain thinks about far too often -- salt and sugar. And getting to fuck salty, snarky Harley on the reg? Tony will take what he can get, even if it’s half of what he yearns for.)

“I’m so fucking close,” Harley hisses, releasing the sheets to grip tightly at Tony’s shoulders, nails digging into skin. “Yes, fuck yes. Like that, just like that. God, your fat cock feels so good filling me up. C’mon, c’mon, make me cum.”

Happily, Tony will admit that he loves pushing Harley to the point of dropping all pride and pretense to beg. It’s such a pretty sound, such a pretty sight. Such a pleasant satisfaction, a heady rush of power. Harley’s been a rebel for so long -- always testing Tony’s boundaries and then blazing right past; putting his menace of a son back in his place satisfies Tony on too many dark levels that he avoids analyzing.

“That depends,” Tony murmurs, sitting back to watch as the boy starts to writhe in wanton, undiluted desperation, face flushing a deep red and nose crinkling with effort as he starts to try and work himself on Tony’s cock, seeking that magic rhythm which will finally drive him over the edge. “Ah, ah, ah,” Tony tsks, slowing down and landing a light smack against Harley’s left lip when the boy lets it a loud whine of indignation. Distressed recognition crosses Harley’s face at what Tony is doing. “How much do you want to cum, Harley? Cause bad boys don’t get to cum. And moving without my permission? Whining like a little bitch? That’s really bad. Maybe I oughta leave you like this.”  

Harley breaks, then, keening softly and imploringly, eyes wide with a beseeching, torn gaze. “I’m sorry,” he says, and those words flow more decadently than the most vintage of wines, or the most sticky and rich of honey. “I’ll be good now, just please, please let me cum.”

“Please, who?”

“Please, _Daddy_.”

“See?” Tony says, voice low and fond and loving, in that way he knows ruins Harley just a little bit in the heart. He knows his son’s expressions, reads the way his eyes shatter a little, catches he faintest shine which hints at a threat of tears Harley will always refuse to let fall. Tony loves it, knowing that for all their roughness, Harley is still his little boy -- sweet, vulnerable, and yearning for his Daddy’s affection in some deep corner of his rebel soul. “So good for Daddy, now, aren’t you? You’ll always be Daddy’s little boy. All you need to do is ask nicely, and Daddy will take care of you.” In reward, he speeds up his rhythm, settling back at a pace that has Harley’s breathing picking up pace, growing raspy with the faintest of whimpers tumbling out in accompaniment. “Daddy loves you, Harley.”

“Just like Peter?”

Three words. Four syllables. One question, asked in a sex-drunk haze of delirium.

Blood catches fire, Harley’s words a match to Tony’s gasoline body.

Tony’d always sworn to never go there. He’d avoided that particular half of his thoughts even as Harley pushed and pushed until Tony had given up any hope of being a decent father and taken his more rebellious son to bed. But even as it became a routine transgression between him and Harley, Tony had sworn that he wouldn’t taint Peter -- earnest, innocent, precious Peter. In a family with one hellion of a brother and one pervert of a father, Peter is their sweetheart.

And Tony had thought it’d been a silent agreement that they wouldn’t draw Peter into their private world of lechery.

But apparently not.

Tony hisses at the sharp punch of pleasure that question brings, but he’s an attentive father, first. He notices how Harley ruins himself with his own question -- the way his cock jumps against his lower belly and leaks an abundant blurt of precum, staining his already-sticky skin. He sees the way Harley’s eyes grow impossibly blacker, and the way his pulse practically jumps out of his throat.

Well, _fuck_.

“Yes, darling, just like Peter,” Tony murmurs, and he holds back his own, spine-tingling orgasm just long enough to watch, mesmerized, as his son wails out and comes undone underneath him, golden-tan body arching and twitching as he comes all over himself.

God, Harley’s beautiful like this.

God, both of Tony’s boys are so beautiful.

(If only he could see Peter come undone, too.)

Finally, the younger boy lets out a little sigh and his body slackens. That little honeyed taste of soft pliability, combined with the clenching tightness of Harley around Tony’s cock, draws Tony over the edge, milking him for all he’s worth as he collapses over his son with a rumbling, hoarse groan which belies any semblance of control he projects.

Sure, they’re his sons. He holds the authority. But he has a father’s boundless love, and with each touch, each endearment, and each smile, he grows more and more powerless against his two boys. He’s their’s, for as long as he lives.

He litters kiss after kiss over Harley’s sweaty skin, while he still can. While his eldest is still incoherent and vulnerable, fucked into an affectionate bliss. He dotes upon his eldest, in these rare moments that the boy will allow it.

“Daddy,” Harley whispers, wrapping his long arms around Tony and clinging tight, all pretenses dropped. “I love you.” Such precious seniments, such golden words. Everything is right in the world.

Well, almost everything.

“And I love you too, Harley,” Tony whispers, lips brushing against dewy skin. “You know that, don’t you?”

“You’ve never let us doubt it.”

“I’m glad.”

“And you love Peter as much as you love me, right?”

“Harls…” It’s the second time Peter’s been brought up -- the first could always be attributed to the heat of the moment and a lapse in judgment, but this second time? It feels profound. To bring up the last part of their triumvirate in the quiet lull after sex, Harley must have been mulling over something for a long time. “What’s going on?” Tony questions. “What’s this about Peter all of a sudden?”

Harley pulls back. For a moment, Tony’s sure that this is it. It’s the shift in the weather, the inevitable change where they both close up again, until next time.

And that’s fine.

It's what they do.

But instead, Harley fixes him with a pensive look. “Daddy,” he begins, voice liting in that way it always does when Harley is about to ask for something.

Tony knows doom when he sees it. He knows a no-win scenario. He knows when he’s about to give in and indulge one of the lights of is life, because he can’t _not_ give into them.

His boys are his Kobayashi Maru.

His Kryptonite.

Even so, he looks in Harley’s eyes and strokes gently at the side of his son’s face. _Even so_ , he asks, knowing full well that he’s about to sign a deal with the devil, “Yes, sweetheart?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp. That's the first part, and what gets the ball rolling. I hope you enjoyed! Thank you for reading, and comments are always appreciated! 
> 
> A good part of writing this fic is actually warm-up/practice and exploration, because I'm starting to draft a rather monumental threesome in a different fic, and I want to stretch my muscles a bit before tackling that one. Writing smut is hard enough, let alone with three people.
> 
> \---
> 
> I am [SbiderSlut](http://sbiderslut.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Come by and say hi! 💖💕


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out a LOT longer than I was expecting. I guess that's what happens when you write with your libido. I hope you enjoy!!

To Tony’s credit, he somehow maintains calm exterior as Harley makes his case for folding Peter into their dynamic. Tony actively listens and doesn’t freak out, even if every molecule in his body is doing an individual rendition of nuclear fission.

He’ll admit, Harley has some good points, including how Peter is too smart not to notice at some point.

There’s also the major possibility that when he does notice, he’ll feel left out.

And with those thoughts, Tony very nearly caves. He just about does so; in fact, he’s surprised he reins himself in at that last moment when words are just about to slip out, because he fully anticipated he would cave -- especially when Harley makes his case so compellingly.

Miraculously, Tony manages to piece together a firm ‘no, we can't do that, Harley,’ and he keeps his flimsy resolve even as Harley’s face shutters and the boy excuses himself.

(Actually, Tony knows exactly what one thing keeps him from caving in. It’s Peter. He’d do anything for Peter. That means taking his own twisted desires to the grave. That means giving Peter a fighting chance to avoid this devil’s tango he and Harley have already lost their souls to.)

 _It’s for the best_ , Tony reassures himself, as the bedroom door slams loudly. _It’s for the best_.

\---

Or maybe not. Tony didn’t factor in that Peter is perhaps more cognizant of the situation than anticipated.  

He’s not really in a conventional situation here, okay? He’s in uncharted grounds of an entirely unethical relationship, and Tony’s one shitty strategy is to just make it up as he goes.

Peter’s eyes Tony with an unreadable expression over breakfast two days later, and Tony is unsettled.

His younger son -- younger by a few minutes -- is an open book. Usually. Painfully earnest and easy to love. Peter doesn’t hide much away. But it's because he's never wanted to before, it seems.

Tony can’t read him now, as Peter looks at him across the kitchen table on an early Saturday morning, over his bowl of oatmeal. 

It's incredibly disorienting.

“Where’s Harley, Daddy?” Peter asks. It’s an innocent and perfectly reasonable question, but something’s not right.

“Sleeping in, probably,” Tony says, excluding the fact that he’d fucked his eldest son into the mattress late last night. Harley had still come to him -- even with their lingering disagreement -- and there’d been an edge to their activities yesterday. A viciousness. “I think he went to bed late or something.”

“Oh, right,” Peter says. “He didn’t come to his room until really late -- I heard him.”

Barely, Tony escapes choking on his coffee. “You were up, still?” he asks, forcing his voice into a casual inquiry. “Neither of you should be staying up so late.”

Peter shrugs at the soft chide. “Harley gets stays up late, so I don’t see why I should be treated any different.” His giant, doleful eyes shift to the side, then up, a petty action that Tony doesn’t see quite often. He catches the quick flash of an unconscious pout before Peter schools his face and asks, “Do you love me, Daddy?”

“Of course, Peter. Always.”

“As much as you love Harley?”

Eerily, it’s too similar to what Tony had been asked two nights ago. Smothering down the sudden sense of dread which arises in him, Tony nods. “I love you both equally,” he says, in all honesty. He really does.

It's just... he’s trying to do right by the younger and gentler of his sons.

“Hmm,” Peter stares at Tony a little more intensely, wide brown eyes searching and inquisitive. He chews his lips in contemplation -- soft, plush pink between the pearly white of straight teeth -- before he grabs his half-empty bowl of oatmeal and rises from his seat. “I love you too, Daddy,” he throws over his shoulder as he leaves the kitchen. “I’ll see you later.”

“See you,” Tony murmurs, deafened by the warning sirens which are sounding in his head.

\---

The entire conversation at breakfast leaves Tony with a heavy rock in his stomach, but he reasons with himself that whatever Peter's playing at, it will come to light sooner than later.

This is the same boy who rushed home in tears the day he received a teacher’s note for missing a homework assignment. This is the same boy who earnestly confessed that he’d gotten in trouble in school, when he could have easily tried to hide it. This is the same boy who’s shamefully admitted that he broke the doorknob, even after Harley had fixed it and then taken responsibility when his quick fix had fallen apart in Tony’s grip.

Whatever Peter is contemplating, he won’t be able to keep it to himself for long.

Peter brings a plate down during lunchtime, while Tony is working in his lab, and quietly slides it across the counter. “You should eat, Daddy,” he prompts, laying out utensils and napkins. “You didn’t have anything for breakfast.”

“Have you eaten?” Tony inquires, raising his gaze from his tablet to appraise his younger son.

He knows Peter is helpless to lie when asked a direct question. Case in point, Peter tries to shrug it off, but still ends up shaking his head. “I haven’t,” he confesses. “I wanted to bring you something, first, and then fix myself something.”

Tony regards his heaping plate of stir fry and suggests, “Why don’t you join me? There’s more than I can eat. Come here, sweetheart.”

Peter hesitates, uncertainty crossing his pretty features. “Would you like me to get Harley, instead?” he asks, subdued in a manner which makes Tony’s heart ache. “He’s just playing video games.”

“What?” Tony asks, feeling his stomach flip in distress. He wracks his brain, trying to think up any logical reason why Peter would say such a thing, but comes up with nothing concrete. “No, Peter,” he says emphatically, trying to muster as much conviction into his voice as possible. “When I say I want to eat lunch with you, I mean _you_.”

“O-okay,” Peter says, even though his expression flickers with a doubt that chips away at Tony’s heart.

“Come here,” Tony prompts, gently, patting at the tabletop to his left side -- Peter’s favorite seat. He like sitting high up. “We should talk, darling.”

Stiffly, Peter comes around the worktable and pushes himself up until he’s sitting at eye-level, long legs dangling in the air, with a thick air of apprehension about him. “Talk about what, Dad?” Peter asks, and the _Dad_ is a dead giveaway of just how out of sorts Peter is. Peter only calls Tony _Dad_ when he’s in emotional turmoil, otherwise it’s always _Daddy_. He’d never outgrown the title, unlike Harley, and hearing it fall from his younger’s lips has become as essential to Tony as oxygen.

“Whatever this is,” Tony says, trying his best not to show his disconcertion. “What’s going on, Pete?”

“Nothing,” Peter says, though the hint of sulkiness on his face says otherwise. As a distraction -- Tony always can tell when Peter’s doing something to deflect -- Peter pulls the plate towards himsel and starts swirling the stir-fry with the fork. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Don’t I know you better than anyone?” Tony asks. “I know something is wrong.”

“Not better than Harley, apparently,” Peter mutters, which, _ouch._ The younger boy immediately bites his lower lip. A look of regret sweeps across his face.

It’s clear that Peter’s sorry for his blurted words. And very rarely does he speak out of turn, so Tony swallows down the hurt and asks, calmly, “Is something going on with Harley?”

“No.”

“Then why do you keep bringing him up like _this_?”

“I, just, I -- ” Peter stumbles over his words several times, before swallowing and drawing the plate into his own lap. “Why don’t you eat first, Dad?”

Again, _ouch_.

But Peter is quick to move, and Tony finds himself with a forkful of saucy stir-fry hovering in front of him before he can generate a decent reaction to their situation. “Fine,” he relents, leaning forward to carefully clean off the fork, making sure to fully wrap his lips around the utensil lest food drops. He chews methodically and swallows, barely tasting the tang of plum sauce and the unique nuttiness of sesame oil; he's too preoccupied with his concern for Peter.

Tony licks his lips and looks up towards Peter’s face, and that’s when he sees it.

Wide eyes, pupils blown black and large. Flushed cheeks. A bitten lip, different from how they’re usually chewed on in fits of anxiety. The way Peter works his lips between his teeth, the way his eyes flutter, it's _too_ obvious.

Want, need, lust.

Oh. _Oh._

“Peter,” Tony whispers in astonishment, utterly flummoxed by this sudden, blatant revelation which he can't possibly ignore. “I -- you -- ”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “Yeah.”

“Peter, I didn’t -- ”

“You didn’t know? Of _course_ you didn’t. You thought I was just blissfully ignorant of everything, didn’t you?”

Could he mean -- ? Does that mean -- ? “What are you saying, Peter?”

“I _know_ , Dad.”  

A thousand reponses form in Tony’s mind, but none of them manage to reach his tongue. He gapes, speechless, and ashamed, and feeling guilty as fuck, because God, how long has Peter known? How long has Peter been wanting him in a way Tony didn’t dare dream of? How long has Peter been wallowing on his own, thinking that he’s unwelcome in this extra bond between his father and his brother?

He can’t find the right words to say, and as he flounders, Peter fractures. The younger boy smiles, brittle and resigned. “That’s why,” he says, and the waver in his voice -- full of held-back tears -- is just about the most gut-wrenching sound Tony can imagine. “T-that’s why I know you love Harley more. I’ll go get him now. Enjoy your lunch.”

“Pete, wait -- ” Tony calls out, springing up from his seat, but Peter has always been nimble. He slides off the table and rushes out of the lab, wiping furiously at his eyes.

 _Fuck_.

Tony moves to rush after Peter, but is halted at the stairs by a fuming Harley. “Go eat your lunch,” his eldest just about snarls, gaze steely and unflinching. “Way to go, _Dad_.”

“I need to -- ” Tony tries to reason, but Harley, fierce and outspoken in a way Peter isn’t, barrels right over Tony.

“What you need to do is take a breather and think over what you’re gonna say. Because Peter’s heartbroken, and you need to watch your next steps. Do _not_ fuck this up a second time.”

And apparently, Tony _really_ doesn't know his youngest as well as Harley does. Much to his dejection, he’s not the reigning champion in understanding Peter, if he’d missed something this big.

So, he miserably defers to Harley’s judgment.

\---

Peter doesn’t come down for dinnertime, and by then, Tony has had enough time to get his thoughts together. “I’m going up,” he says, and Harley acquiesces, even if he levels Tony with a hard stare which speaks better than any words.

“I’ll be careful,” Tony assures, but the weight of that dead stare still follows him out of the living room. Objectively, he’s exceptionally moved that Harley is so, so protective of his younger twin. Parents only ever dream of having children who are as close as Peter and Harley actually are.

He’s incredibly lucky.

It’s just a lot easier to appreciate when not directed at him.

Tony approaches Peter’s door and knocks, to no avail. There’s only silence on the other side, even though he _knows_ Peter is on the other side. Call it logic, or a father’s intuition, but there’s no doubt. He’s eerily able to sense out his sons, like some fucked-up paternal radar. “Pete, I’m coming in, okay?” he warns, and turns the doorknob.

It’s locked.

Peter never locks his door, ever.

Tony swallows around a lump in his throat “I, uh, guess I’ll just talk out here, then,” he says, “Will you listen?”

There’s no answer, so Tony can only hope for the best as he blunders forward, driven by his guilt, yet feeling wedged somewhere between foolish and pathetic whilst doing so. “If I’m being honest, this isn’t a conversation anyone should be having, _ever_. But somehow, we still ended up here, didn’t we?” He chuckles, darkly, a sandpaper-like wheeze which curls in the lowest point of his throat. “We never wanted you to feel left out, Peter. We never even wanted to leave you out.”

He pauses for a breath, despising how there really isn’t any _decent_ way to say what he’s about to say. “What I feel is… I -- I love you, Peter. I love you in every way I should, and in every way I absolutely shouldn’t. And if you don’t already know, Harley does, too. You’re nobody’s second best, Peter. You’re not unwanted, not the slightest bit. You are so, so wanted, actually.”

Tony can hear the unasked question hanging in the air, even with the distance between them. Even with the thick, inpenetrable wood of a door between them. Even with Peter’s utter silence.

Tony knows what question lingers on Peter’s lips, begging to be articulated.

_Then why did you leave me out?_

“What Harley and I were -- ” he stumbles over himself. “ _Are_ , what we _are_ doing is _wrong._ And it’s so fucked up and we both know that, and we’re _so_ going to hell for it. I can’t speak for Harley, but I had absolutely _no idea_ that you felt anything like _that_ for either of us. I couldn’t even imagine -- you’re so _good_ , Peter. You’ve always been the sweetest boy. You’ve always been so innocent. How could I have guessed that -- ?” Pressed against the solid wood of the door, Tony’s fingers tremble. Even as he says it, he can’t quite bring himself to believe it.

“I would have never forgiven myself if I had corrupted you and dragged you into our fucked-up dynamic, which is why we’ve compartmentalized everything from you. It’s never that we didn’t want you -- quite the opposite, actually. And we never intended for you to feel excluded.”  

Fact of the matter is, Tony knows exactly how wrong their situation is. He knows how deplorable it was to start this thing with Harley in the first place, and it’s even worse to draw Peter into it, regardless of how the younger boy may feel.

But all that talk about parents who are willing to do anything to indulge and make their children happy? It’s absolutely true. Tony’s always been helpless putty when it comes to his two boys. And if his own vile desires happen to match theirs?

How could Tony ever say _no_ to this?

How could Tony look his two darling boys in their eyes -- one challenging and full of bravado, yet with that undertone of need; the other simply bursting at the seams with enchantingly uninhibited sweetness -- and deny them anything they could ever want?

(Hey, at least this way, the boundaries between heaven and hell will never separate them. At least, they’ll burn together for eternity. A king of sin, and his prince and princess.)

Knowing full well how utterly deplorable he’s being, Tony rests his forehead against the unforgiving door and says, “I love you, Peter, and I’ll love you in any way you wish. You are wanted, always -- I promise you that.”

He walks away knowing he’s just fallen deeper into a pit of heinousness. And yet, Tony can’t bring himself to regret his decisions -- not any which bring him closer to his boys, not any which might allow them _both_ to be happy in that incandescent, rapturous way which Tony’s been blessed to see on Harley’s face more often as of late.

He’ll never regret it.

And he’ll always be sorry for that.

\---

He’s sitting in his office, mulling (moping, if he’s being honest) over the possibility that it might take a long while to repair the damages in his and Peter’s relationship.

That is, the parts which can still be repaired. Some things have changed, permanently.   

He desperately hopes they can, though, as if they’re not already shattered in a billion pieces from the thousand-foot drop they’d taken right off the edge of a cliff.

Fuck, Tony’s really screwed this one up, hasn’t he? Even more than the thousand ways their precarious position is intrinsically fucked up just by its very nature.

How the hell is he going to fix this?

The phone vibrates where it’s sitting flat on the table, and Tony accepts the call with a thoughtless, instinctual swipe of his fingers, not even bothering to check the ID. He could really use the distraction of a work call right about now. “Stark speaking.”

There’s silence on the other end. “Speaking,” he repeats, after a long pause.  

More silence, but the type that contains the suggestion of something on the other end. There are faint movements through his Bluetooth earpiece… and perhaps breathing? Is that what he hears? Regardless, nobody speaks.

Tony checks the phone screen, now.

 _Harley_.

Tony’s just about to hang up and go find his eldest son when something else comes through the line -- louder rustling, the sound of thick fabric being manipulated. A voice -- Harley’s voice. “Here, let me get that for you -- just lift a bit -- yeah, like that. Perfect.”

Then, softer, so soft that Tony has to strain to make out the words, “It’s okay, don’t be shy.”

The whimper which follows -- soft and high, almost feminine -- is certainly not Harley, but Tony would recognize that honey-sweet tone anywhere. _Peter_. The pen drops from his grasp and clacks against the tabletop.

“Fuck, you look so pretty, Pete.”

_Holy shit._

Tony should hang up. He _most definitely_ should hang up, despite the sudden pang in his chest. Despite the disgusting surge of arousal which sweeps through his body. Despite the potent, churning mix of jealousy yet utter reverence which swirls low in his belly.

He doesn’t hang up.

“Dad doesn’t even know what he’s missing out on, does he? How could anyone resist you?”

Another whimper, already so wanton and wrecked.

“God, you’re just drooling for it. I know you’ve been waiting. You’ve been saving yourself up for us, hoping that we’ll be the first to touch you, but that’s hard, isn’t it?”

Softly, pathetically, mournfully, Peter says, “ _Yes,_ ” and it just about shatters Tony’s heart.

“I’ve seen how people at school look at you,” Harley continues, and over the low husk of his eldest’s voice, Tony can catch the sound of more clothes rustling -- undoubtedly, clothes being shed. He can hear the movements of bodies over a mattress, the whispers of skin over skin. “The prettier twin. The _sweetheart_. And each time someone looks at you like they want you for themselves, I _hate_ it.”

“You do?”

“Of course. You’re _mine_. Maybe _ours_ , if Dad gets his shit together. And nobody else gets to have you.”

“I don’t want to be anyone else’s.”

Maybe Tony should feel concern at how possessive his sons can be. How codependent.

But he isn’t.

The intensity of bond his boys share -- both between themselves and with Tony, as Harley had suggested -- fills his heart (among _other things_ ) until he feels he may burst.

Already, he’s so fucking hard, straining painfully against the seams of his slacks, and he roughly presses a palm against his clothed cock as the telltale sounds of lips against lips fills the line.

“Let me,” he hears Harley murmur, muffled into the sloppy noises of a rather wet kiss. “Just follow my lead.”

Tony can hear trial and error as the sounds continue -- the soft smack of a kiss followed by a mimicking one, hesitant at first, but then, more confident. Smoother.

Then, quiet and trembling, a _moan_.

“There you go,” Harley croons. “That feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Why don’t you give it try?”

It’s Harley’s turn to moan, then, low and more of a growl. “Such a fast learner,” he whispers, and then everything devolves; sounds of furious, passionate kissing fill the line, and _JesusfuckingChrist_ , Tony is already so, so lit up -- his entire body is on fire.

Suddenly, the wet sounds of kissing halt.

Peter gives a stilted, choked, _ah_ , and Harley chuckles. “Fuck, you’re dribbling all over my clothes, Pete,” he says, and Tony shuts his eyes, biting back a loud groan at the image that forms in his mind: Harley still dressed in loungewear, Peter completely stripped, cock flushed pink and leaking against the fabric of his older brother’s sweats.

“I’m sorry,” Peter’s voice crackles through, miserably.

“No, no, don’t be,” Harley is quick to reassure his younger twin. “It’s fucking hot. Just -- here.” Hand grasps flesh, Tony can infer, probably Harley grasping Peter by his hips. Peter makes a choked-off noise as Harley says, “God, Pete, rub off on me some more. Fuck. You’re so hot.”

There are more wet noises, but Peter is whimpering and mewling in a symphony of the sweetest, most delectable little noises, so Tony can only imagine where Harley’s lips are focused. The sound of rustling clothes becomes louder and more frantic. Rhythmic, almost. Undoubtedly, Peter’s rutting up against his brother, seeking a relief he’s never had the heart to claim from anyone else.

“Fuck, Pete, yes,” Harley hisses, “Just like that. Doesn’t that feel so good?”

“Uh--huh, uh-huh,” Peter gasps, frantically, and Tony can picture, vividly, how he’s probably nodding his head along with his vehement agreement, in that adorable way he does. “Oh god, it’s _so good,_ Harley, _please…_ ”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Harley acquiesces, and _dammit_ , it’s insane how Harley is the most bullheaded and difficult eighteen-year-old in existence, up until his twin asks him for something.

(But then again, who wouldn’t go instantaneously weak for Peter? Doe-eyed Peter with his doe-like demeanor.)

There’s a pause, a sharp inhale -- almost shocked -- and then a moan, long and lingering and keening. “Fuck,” Peter cries out, and that first curse is like a bullet to the gut. Tony can’t help the grunt that forms in his throat, as his hips unconsciously buck up in his seat. “Oh, god, _Harley_.”

“Yeah, that’s so good, isn’t it?” Harley goads, voice low and husky with desire. “Nobody’s touched you like this before, have they?”

“No, no, never. Please keep touching me, please.”

“Of course, baby. How can I resist touching you when you’re so pretty, hmm? Even your cock is so pretty, Peter.”

Even Tony can’t miss the telling way Peter’s breath catches.

“You like being called pretty, Peter? You like being the prettier twin?”

Silence, fraught with embarrassment.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Pete,” Harley soothes. “I’m sure Dad thinks you’re the prettiest, hmm?”

“Oh, _god_.”

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Don’t worry, I’m sure you’re Dad’s prettiest, sweetest baby boy.” Accompanied by those words are broken little mewls, and the sound of slickness. “God, you’re so wet,” Harley croons, “You’re absolutely dripping. Just look at your pretty little cock in my hand, _fuck_. Look at you, getting your brother's hand all messy.”

Yes, Tony can most definitely hear just how wet his youngest is. He’s getting there, himself, cock throbbing and leaking within the confines of his pants.

It escalates quickly from there; the slick noises speed up -- the sound of Harley’s hand furiously working Peter’s cock, and Peter’s breathing as it breaks off into broken gasps and stilted moans. “Oh my god, oh my god,” he whimpers out, “I’m close, Harley, I’m close.”

And then, Harley inexplicably slows.

“W-what? Harley…”

“Tell me,” Harley says. If Tony strains, he can hear how Harley is still slowly stroking his younger brother’s cock, languid and wet, but definitely nowhere near enough to push Peter over the edge. _Poor boy_ , Tony thinks. Harley’s voice has that quality to it, now -- that devilish quality which only makes an appearance during the most racy of situations. There’s no way Peter would recognize it, but Tony does. And he knows, Peter’s about to be drawn into the game of a lifetime. “How would you want Dad to touch you?”

Tony’s stomach swoops, low and violent. His toes curl against the hardwood; he genuinely considers that he might finish in his pants like a goddamn teenager if this conversation continues down its current path.

“H-huh? Harley, what’re you--?”

“Tell me,” Harley presses forth. “When you think about our dad fucking you, what do you imagine?”

“Harley! That’s so -- ”

“Your dick is in my hand, Peter, and I’m your twin. And I’ve seen how you look at Dad, don’t deny it. There’s no shame, here.”

“I… ”

“Here, I’ll go first. You know Dad has a monster cock? And he knows how to use it, too. Fills me right the fuck up until I can feel it in the back of my throat, Pete. There’s nothing like it, I swear.”

“Oh my _god_.”

 _Indeed_ , Tony thinks, feeling his entire mouth go dry as he hears Harley describe, in crude, vivid detail, what it feels like when they fuck.

“That’s what you’ll scream, for sure. I’m a tight fit, but when he’s fucking your little virgin ass? He’ll absolutely _wreck_ you, Peter. He’ll just split you wide open with that fat cock of his, make you cry like a little bitch as he spears you repeatedly. You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

It’s as if those words lift a seal right off Peter, because Tony can hear the exact moment his youngest _loses his fucking mind._

“Yes, fuck, _ohgodplease_ , yes, I need him in me so much, Harley, I need him to fuck me loose, until I’m ruined for anyone else. Until both of you are dripping out of my wrecked hole. Make me his, make me yours, make me the family _bitch_.”

There’s no way of knowing without visuals, but Tony understands his son well enough, and he _swears_ he can hear the hint of tears in Peter’s voice. Reprehensibly, it just arouses him more, that the thought of being fucked by Tony is enough to put tears in his son’s eyes.

More than anything, Tony longs to see the sheen of tears in Peter’s eyes. He longs to personally provoke them in his youngest, longs to see them build as he brings Peter to the brink, longs to see them finally fall loose as Peter tips over the edge…

He’s dragged out of his derailing thoughts by the distinct husk of Harley’s voice, again.

His boys build off one another beautifully. As Peter descends into deliriously voicing his desires, Harley adds on, in more of a savage hiss than actual words, “Oh, he’ll destroy you beyond repair, Peter. You’ll never want anyone else once you’ve had him. And you know what? He’ll fill you to the brim with his cum, until there’s no room left and it’s just bursting out of you. He comes a _lot_ , Pete, there’s _so much_ of it, and it’s fucking incredible. So much to eat up, and you’re such a hungry little cumslut, aren’t you? You’d lick it all up, every last dirty drop, I can tell.”

“Yes, yes, please, I want to lick it all up, I want to choke on his cock and let him cum all over me and make me clean up the mess. I want him to _paint_ me. I want him to fill my belly -- I need -- ” He breaks off, then, into soft little sniffles and sobs that both tear at Tony’s heart and throbs in his groin. _God_ , Tony’s truly despicable, isn’t he? Being aroused by the sound of his son crying?

“I _need_ him, Harley,” Peter whispers out, brokenly, “I need him _so much_. I want him _so much_.”

“Shh, shh,” Harley soothes, then, more tender than he’s sounded this entire time. “I know, Petey, I know. It’s alright, I get it. We’ll figure this out.”

“You promise?”

“I swear. We’ll figure this out, trust me. But for now, why don’t you let your big brother take care of you?”

(In any other situation, Peter would protest that they're actually  _twins, stop pretending you're older, Harley_ , but not today, apparently.) 

There's a long pause, only filled with the loud rustling of bodies shifting around, and then Peter says, “Wait, are you --? You’re going to --?”

“Do you not want me to?”

“N-no, it’s not that! It’s just… _wow_. I don’t know why you'd want to.”

“I’ve wanted to suck you off forever, Pete. Like, literally ever since we were fifteen and we shared that shower at camp. You have such a lovely little cock, and I just want to hear your sweet little screams as you cum down my throat. Tell me if that’s not okay.”

“I-it’s okay,” Peter stutters out. “Okay. It’s okay. Oh god, I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Believe it,” Harley breathes. “You’re gonna love this.”

There’s the briefest of lulls, before Peter is bleating out, frail and earnest like a little lamb. “ _Hah_ -Harley,” he cries, and there’s the sound of muffled impact -- fists pounding against a mattress -- and the stifled, throaty groan of Harley as he swallows down his brother’s cock.

Tony’s head drops back as Peter’s wrecked cries wash over him. Unconsciously, his hand kneads against the hard outline of his cock and he bucks up into the pressure, hips in time with the barely-audible sounds Harley makes -- these throaty, guttural little noises as the back of his throat is repeatedly battered in a way Tony knows all-too-well.

Inexperience has its benefits; Peter doesn’t hold out long, which is a fucking relief because Tony is so, so on edge already, both in mind and body. It’s not long before Peter’s moans grow in both pitch and volume, and then he warns, voice shaky and mewling, “Harley, I’m gonna -- I’m so close, Harley, you need to -- ”

The only change that warning prompts is a heightened intensity as Harley’s determination grows -- Tony knows that dogged determination first-hand. Sounds of renewed enthusiasm filter through -- furious suckling noises, sloppy slickness, a low groan of reassurance that’s closer to a chest-centered purr than anything vocalized, all overlaid with the cracking of Peter’s voice as he cries out, strained and squeaking, voice tapering into incoherent little _ah ah ah’s_.   

The moment Peter comes is so, so clear; Tony listens with his free hand gripped so tight around the armrest of his seat that his fingers are white and bloodless. He hears the moment of silence, unspeakably loud and fraught with tension -- the calm before the storm, the breath before the drop. The silence stretches, and then it _shatters_ \-- Peter cries out, raw and utterly broken, so loud that Tony can catch traces of it with his other ear, the sounds of depravity traveling throughout the house.

It takes a full minute for Peter to come down, moans tapering off into rapsy pants, then slower breaths, and finally, a contented silence. Tony listens in rapt attention; he doesn’t just crave the filthiest bits with its tears and agony and ecstasy -- he wants _everything_. He wants the coming down, the calm after the storm has passed. He wants the softness, the cuddles and touches and quietness.

It doesn’t last. As soon as Peter’s breathing has, for the most part, leveled out, there’s a sudden flurry of noises -- feet smacking the ground, a body flinging off the mattress.

Swift movements, the opening of a bedroom door.

Tony has barely any time to react before footsteps are pounding in the hall, growing continuously louder until the office door violently bursts open and Harley comes storming in, flushed red and looking thoroughly debauched, face twisted in a strange expression and puffy lips pursed together rather oddly.

“Harley,” Tony stammers, and before he can even say anything else, his eldest son is already rounding the table and swooping down to drag Tony into a desperate, filthy kiss.

His tongue pushes past Tony’s lips, indelicate and rough, and there’s suddenly so much spit filling Tony’s mouth -- since when is Harley such a drooly kisser?

But it doesn’t quite feel like spit, nor does it taste like it -- there’s a hint of bitterness and muskiness and Tony’s eyes fly open in pure shock; a muffled grunt escapes him and gets lost in the furious working of Harley’s mouth against his.

Harley takes the opportunity to slide his tongue further, to widen the kiss; he hollows in his cheeks and cum fills Tony’s mouth, and _holy shit_ Tony’s brain is short-circuiting and he can’t quite process that he’s being fed a mouthful of Peter’s cum -- that Harley had literally sucked Peter dry and came rushing to deliver such precious, sordid cargo directly to Tony.

He delves in with a snarling groan, grasping the back of his older son’s neck and dragging the boy into his lap. He holds Harley’s jaw in a trembling grip and ravenously kisses back, licking deep into Harley’s mouth to claim every last drop he can.

Every last, decadent drop of Peter.

Finally, it’s _Harley_ who pushes Tony back, and Tony strains forward, even though every last trace has been licked clean, even though there’s no sinful taste left of Peter to be found in Harley’s mouth.

It’s just, with one taste, Tony realizes just how starving he’s been this entire time; he groans in protest as Harley pushes him back, feeling for once like he’s the needy child, a delicious reversal of roles.

“If you want more where that came from,” Harley says, lips twisting into a pleased, impish, little smirk, “Peter says to go get it yourself.”

It takes a long, loud pause for Tony to register those words and the implications behind them. _The fuck_? His heart pounds, loud and whooshing in his chest. He licks his lips, rasps out a befuddled “What?” right as his earpiece crackles back to life.

“Hello, Daddy,” Peter’s simpering voice murmurs through the line, into Tony’s right ear, more coy than Tony’s ever heard before. “What did you think?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and any comments are appreciated <3 Part 3 -- the threesome -- is coming, and there's another treat with it <3
> 
> \---
> 
> I am [SbiderSlut](http://sbiderslut.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Come by and say hi! 💖💕


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, this took me 84 years to finish. My sincere condolences. For those of you who are still around and willing to put up with my hooligan-ness, I appreciate you <3 Disclaimer -- this is filth. But it's also stupidly emotional. I struggled, because a part of me wanted to write pure gratuitous filth, but the other half had to shoehorn in heavy emotions. Sooo, this is the result. 
> 
> (Buuut in writing this, I came up with some new purely filthy ideas for this universe, so have no fear -- there will be followup oneshots that are purely smutty and dirty without all the feelings (ugh, feelings, right?)) 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy. And also, starkerchemistry made me a beautiful moodboard to go with this fic -- many a difficult writing session, I have pulled up this moodboard and stared at it until I found my inspiration again.

To say Tony has ever powerwalked more swiftly would be a fat lie.

(‘Which room?’ he’d asked as he brought himself and Harley to standing.)

(‘Master bedroom,’ Harley had announced, brimming over with smugness; he’d snorted as Tony swept past him with a single-minded fervor.)

The hall is so fucking _long_ , Tony laments. Each step is a special kind of torture, as if his heart is already at its destination, but his body is slow to follow.

Every reservation he had before? Vanished. With that slip of Harley’s tongue, with the way Peter had been fed to Tony in the most obscene of proxies -- the most tempting of proxies -- all moral thoughts have abandoned ship.

There’s only one thing left: an all-consuming, lecherous desire to indulge straight from the source.

Tony will take the doomed bite; he’ll feast on the lush fruit. He’ll accept his exile from Eden.

He strides down the hall as if heading out the gates of Paradise. Nothing can stop him -- not morals, not his thoughts, not the word of New York law, not the threat of an eternity in the inferno.

Tony is a king of sin, and his princess is waiting.

He kicks the door open without a second thought, gaze immediately latching onto the image of Peter, practically engulfed by the vastness of the Alaskan king, all wide eyes and pale, creamy skin, long legs folded under him as he perches among the fluffy, white mess of comforter and sheets.

He looks absolutely _tiny_.

Such a little thing, yet so _sublime_. Tony finds himself stretched in a grueling tug-of-war between disgustingly perverse thrill and overwhelming love.  

“H-hi,” Peter stammers, and that’s the thing, isn’t it? Peter can play coy all he wants, can amp up his cute bravado, can tease Tony over the phone in that sultry little voice, but Tony sees through all of that, to this precious lamb of a boy who flushes and flusters when push comes to shove.

After all, who knows a boy better than his father?

There’s no controlling himself; Tony stalks forward and crawls up the bed, exhilaration flaring when Peter scootches back unconsciously, pretty little face covered in a blush. “Don’t be scared, baby,” Tony soothes, “It’s just me. Come here, darling.”

Ever so obedient, Peter meekly comes forward with an unfolding of limbs and a bright-eyed perusal which sends an electrical current straight to Tony’s cock. _God,_ he can’t quite believe the situation, but his body is already on board.

Without second thought, he reaches forward and grasps a slender ankle, dragging Peter in. “ _Oomph_ ,” Peter huffs out, shocked by the manhandling, yet deferential. _Docile_ , as he lets himself get yanked underneath Tony.

Tony braces his body over Peter’s willowy frame, cups his youngest’s cheek, and for a minute, he simply _looks_.  

He takes it all in -- the long lashes and bitten lips and fair complexion that’s already tinted with a pink flush. He studies the slope and point of a perky nose, and those fetching cheekbones, and that one wonky eyebrow which seems determined to point upwards no matter what.

He allows himself to admire, in a way he’s never allowed himself before tonight. He looks in his son’s eyes -- chocolate brown rings around black pools, and drinks in the hurricane of emotion swirling in them. It brews and churns; there’s shock and veneration, fear and longing, _so_ much love.

Tony can barely stand it.

(How had he missed out on this for so long? He’s such an old fool.)

“Fuck, I love you so,” he finds himself professing, voice thick. “I’m so sorry you ever doubted it, sweetheart.”

“It’s okay,” Peter whispers, feathery and urgent. “It’s okay, it’s okay, I love you, too. Please, kiss me?”

It takes every ounce of self-control to not dive in and ravish his youngest son. If only Tony didn’t adore Peter so much, with every old atom and molecule in him, he would have, most definitely.

But, he moves in slow, as Peter deserves; he dips down and brushes his lips against his son’s, smiling at the soft sigh Peter makes as they come in first contact. The kiss is so… _Peter_. The way his youngest’s neck cranes upwards, the way he hesitantly kisses at Tony’s lower lip, the way his breath gusts in naive restlessness. It’s everything Tony imagined a first kiss from Peter would entail.

It’s _perfect_.

“Thank you,” Peter hums against Tony’s lips, and _damn_ , Tony’s never doubted it once, but he’s never been more aware of how his entire heart belongs to his two boys. Tony is theirs, in every possible way.

“Please,” Peter whispers, and Tony is ready to do _anything_ \-- bring ruin, rain down the ten plagues, make a deal with the devil.

(If his boys want fire, he’ll let the world burn.)

But. There’s just _one_ thing.

“Please, _what_?” Tony hints, drawing back the slightest bit. There’s one thing that’s missing -- one word he needs to hear, more than he needs the air in his lungs.

“Hmm?” Peter glances up bashfully, eyes crossing in the most endearing way at Tony’s close proximity. “What do you mean?”

“You know what,” Tony chides, just to have his heart tug at the needy noise of distress Peter makes. “Call for me,” he urges, relishing in how Peter frets at that request. He catches Peter’s chin, tilting it so Peter meets his gaze. “Don’t be shy, Pete,” Tony coaxes, “Let me hear you. Call for me.”

“ _Daddy_ ,” Peter calls out, with earth-shattering vulnerability, and everything is right in the world again. “Daddy.” His voice wavers.

“Yes, darling,” Tony murmurs. “I’m here. Daddy’s here.”

“More, please, Daddy,” Peter asks, and Tony gives ardently; he delves into the sweetness of his son’s mouth, teasing with the tip of his tongue just to hear the adorable way his youngest’s breath breaks. He sucks Peter’s lower lip between his and smirks at the warbled moan which tumbles out.

Before tonight, Tony could only ever imagine. He’d snatch up bits of innocence and twist them, much to his own shame; he’d listen for Peter’s soft sigh as he stretched in the morning, or the low groan of satisfaction he’d make at that first sip of a milkshake. Tony’s heard countless permutations of noises from Peter’s lips, and he’s wondered, too many abhorrent times, how his youngest son would sound in the most lascivious of situations.

And now, he _knows_.

“Fuck, you sound just like I imagined,” Tony declares, stroking his thumb along the cutting edge of Peter’s jaw.

“Like what?” Peter inquires.

“Like the prettiest melody.” Tony watches a kaleidoscope of emotions dance across Peter’s face with deep gratification. He knows his son, knows how weak Peter goes for soft words and compliments. “Do you know you’re the loveliest boy? _My_ loveliest boy.”

“Daddy…”

“Yes, baby?”

“More. Tell me more.”

Tony does.

Gently, he tilts Peter’s head to the side and leans in, nosing along the graceful length of a swan-like neck. He lavishes Peter with soft kisses which draw out barely-audible mewls, and as Peter shivers under his ministrations, Tony whispers, warm and wet against the shell of his son’s ear.

“You’ve always been my sweetheart,” he says, the words spilling out with little control or coherence. “My darling boy, my sweetest son, the one who still calls me _Daddy_ , who still lets me pull you into my lap and hug you -- do you even know what that does to me? Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re calling for me every chance you get -- _Daddy_ this, _Daddy_ that. You let me love you so openly and you drink it all up, and that’s how I know -- however old you are, you’ll always be my baby boy, won’t you?”

_Won’t you?_

Tony’s heart skips at the grenade of a question he’d clumsily let drop.

(Fact of the matter is, as staggering as this situation may feel for Peter, it’s quite the same for Tony, too. He’s just better at hiding it.)

“Yes, Daddy, _always_ , I’ll always -- ” Peter breaks off into hitching pants as Tony kisses heatedly at a particularly sensitive point of his neck. It’s a kiss of relief at Peter's words, at such priceless sentiment. “ -- I'll always be yours -- forever.” A pause, riddled with the faintest uncertainty. “If you’d like that…?”

“Of course,” Tony readily agrees around a lump in his throat. “I want you, darling, in _every_ way.” _And I’m sorry it took me so long to realize it_. “As as long as you’ll have me,” Tony vows, “You’ll be _mine_.”

There’s no way he can help the wolfish possession which leaks into his words.

“Yes,” Peter whispers, though his demure surface is contradicted by the valiant twitch his cock gives against Tony’s lower belly -- discernible through a layer of shirt. “I’ll have you, Daddy, I -- I want you so much.”

“For how long?”  _How long have you waited for me to catch on?_

“I - I don’t know. For so long. Feels like forever.” Peter looks down, then, long lashes casting shadows over his cheeks, and Tony follows Peter’s gaze to the breathtaking sight of where they’re pressed flush together: Peter’s cock, perfectly sized and half-hard and just as lovely as Tony had shamefully imagined, nestled against the soft, wrinkled fabric of Tony’s white dress shirt.

“Daddy,” Peter breathes, and Tony realizes -- the mantra is for _Peter_. The constant repeating of _Daddy_ \-- that’s for _Peter_ , so he can savor how he’s finally able to use that title to its truest, most fucked-up form.

So he can remind himself that this is real.

So he can bask the deepest, darkest _implications_ of their deeds as he grinds his half-hard cock against the curve of his _father’s_ hip. “Daddy,” Peter murmurs, lost somewhere between a plea and a prayer, and his voice crackles with the threat of tears.

“Daddy’s got you,” Tony husks. Christ, they’re doing this. This is really happening. Peter is clinging to the lapels of his shirt and rocking against the friction of Tony's hip, seeking a pleasure only Tony -- only his _Daddy_ \-- can give. That last barrier between them -- between Tony and his flesh and blood -- is crumbling to the ground. “It’s alright, darling, Daddy’s right here.”

He holds his dear boy tightly as Peter ruts weakly against him, and sensing the third presence at the doorway, Tony says, “Come over here, Harley. I can hear you.”

There's the soft padding of feet on the ground, and then the telling dips of the mattress, and finally, a warmth which curls along Tony’s back as Harley comes up behind them and carefully molds himself to Tony, clinging on. “I didn’t know if…”

 _If I’m welcome_.

Peter stiffens in Tony’s arms, hips going still. “I want you here,” he earnestly protests, before Tony can express similarly. “I always want you here, both of you.”

“Yes,” Tony is quick to agree, just so there’s no room for any doubt in either of his sons. He pulls back the slightest bit from Peter, so it’s clear he’s addressing both his boys. “One of you is a little demon monster and the other is an angel, and you’re both conniving as fuck, but damn if I don’t love the two of you to death, and I’ll never stop needing _both_ of you -- I’d stop breathing first.”

There’s a pause, and then Peter’s murmuring, “Oh, Daddy…” as he peers up with a wide, dewy gaze.

Harley says nothing; he just hugs Tony tighter, plants a dry kiss to the nape of Tony’s neck. That action says everything, far better than words. Harley’s never been one for soft words, anyways.

“We know you love us,” Peter speaks up, for all of them. For Harley, who allows him. “And this won't always be an equilateral relationship, and it won’t be perfect, but we can figure that out, right?”

“Right,” Harley says, then, rough and fervent.

Enveloped between his two sons, Tony finds the worst of his anxieties are assuaged. With one sweet boy spread out underneath him, and another crowded at his back, he’s the most fortunate man in the universe. Whatever knots and tangles they inevitably run into? They’ll work it out, just as they always have -- a single father and his darling boys against the world.

“Yes.” Tony swallows, taking a second to compose himself. “Alright.” He glances down at Peter, an ethereal vision painted on a canvas of white sheets, brown hair a halo around his head. He prompts, gently, “It’s your call, sweetheart. You get first turn. What can we do for you?”

“I wanna see you kiss Harley,” Peter requests, without hesitation. “I’ve been curious.”

“What do you say, Harls?” Tony asks, turning to regard his eldest son. “Give me a kiss?”

Harley rolls off Tony’s back, then. He comes to settle at Peter’s side, leans up on his elbows so they’re hovering above Peter, and wordlessly draws Tony into a deep, filthy kiss.

Peter’s breath catches, audibly, as their lips collide.

They make a show of it. Tony allows a low purr to rumble through his chest as Harley flicks the tip of his tongue out, brushing at the roof of Tony’s mouth; Tony slides his hand into blonde curls and grips them tightly, which makes Harley let out an obscene, lilting moan.

They break the kiss to regard Peter, and Tony can only assume that Harley is coming to the same conclusion -- that lustful and hungry is such a gorgeous look on their youngest family member.

“What next, princess?” Tony asks, and he smirks at the telling way Peter bites his lips. Beside him, Harley snorts.

“I, uh, don’t know. Anything… _everything_?”

As if the weren’t the vaguest answer Peter could give. But the innocence to him -- the blatant inexperience -- is charming. It shouldn’t be so provoking.

And yet it is.

Tony can’t help it; he snatches this opportunity to take charge. He’s questioned countless things in his life, including his less-than-pure feelings for his sons, but he’s done questioning himself, now. “Want me to lead, then, baby?”

Eyes wide with naïveté, Peter nods. “Mhmm.”

Tony turns to Harley next, thinking his rebellious one is more likely to protest Tony taking the reins. “That okay?” Tony asks, and to his surprise, Harley simply nods with a bounce of blonde curls and the teasing trace of a smile.

“Just this one time, old man, I’ll let you decide,” Harley ribs, his tough-boy demeanor sliding in place like a comfortable, well-worn tee.

“Then get over here,” Tony beckons with equal snark. “Sit against the headboard. Strip.”

“Yessir,” Harley says with a little mocking salute, and he kicks off his sweats before taking a seat at the head of the bed. “Next?"

Tony turns to regard Peter, who’d been watching with no little fascination. “Up you get, sweetheart,” he coaxes, with a hushed quality he knows makes Peter utterly weak and pliant. “There you go, rest against your brother.”

Firm, yet tenderly, Tony steers the youngest of their trio, getting Peter tucked between his older brother’s legs, back to chest, cocooned in a tight embrace he can’t escape from. “Oh,” Peter breathes out, eyes enlarging as his tailbone undoubtedly comes in bare contact with Harley’s arousal.

“Open your legs for me, sweet boy,” Tony prompts, and immediately, the visible flexing of toes and tensing of muscles betrays Peter’s nervousness. “It’s okay, Peter, it’s just me -- just me and Harley. We’re all family here, and you’ll let us know if you’re uncomfortable with anything, right?”

“R-right.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good boy,” Tony praises. “Now spread those lovely legs for me? Let Daddy see you.”

Peter gulps, nods, and shakily opens his legs, one timid inch at a time, bony knees trembling the slightest bit -- that is, until they’re gently grasped by Harley’s steady hands and pried further apart. “I’ve got you,” Tony hears Harley murmur. “It’s alright, I’ve got you. Relax. Show Dad how pretty you are.”

“You are _so_ pretty, baby,” Tony is quick to assure, riveted on the sight in front of him -- the spread of pale, long legs, the flat expanse of a slim tummy, and Peter’s half-hard cock, lilting to one side, resting against the crease where inner thigh meets hip.

“A little more,” Tony directs, “Higher up.”

Harley obeys, with astounding deference, and Tony’s eyes catch on what he’s been unconsciously seeking, then; his gaze trails lower and lower, to the pink pucker of Peter’s hole, dainty and tight and quivering just the slightest bit. _Fuck_ , Tony wants to bury himself, _deep_. “Hold him like that, won’t you, Harls?”

“You got it.”

Tony takes his sweet time, then.

Tony sits on his haunches and grips one of Peter’s delicate ankles. He brings that leg up, to face level, and proceeds to lavish it in loving attention; he peppers a doting kiss to the arch of Peter’s foot before moving higher to nip against the prominence of an ankle bone.

Peter gives a hitching whimper.

In response, Tony licks over the bite with a swirl of his tongue, entranced by how Peter’s lips part at the gesture.

Languidly, he teases up the inseam of Peter’s calf, taking time to suck the faintest of bruises at the inner bend of Peter’s knee, absolutely luxuriating in the loud, tremulous gasp Peter gives at that bloom of pain-pleasure. Further and further, he travels up and up, and he can feel the anticipation and restlessness which simmers under Peter’s skin, thrums in his pulse, raises the fine hairs on his skin, echoes in how his breathing grows oh-so-erratic and panting.

And as Tony comes within tantalizing inches of Peter’s cock -- now fully hard, flushed red at the tip that’s just barely starting to glisten with a beading of precum -- he pulls back.

Even if every cell in him is screaming to just lean in and lap up Peter’s taint, to eat his son out all sloppy and wet. Or to kiss up the underside of that pretty, pretty cock until Peter’s all but bucking and rutting against Tony’s face, all sense of control shot. To guzzle his son’s cum, satiate his own craving. 

But, he’s gonna make this last. He won’t touch Peter’s cock -- not unless he has to. No, he wants to take Peter to pieces in only the most intimate and deepest of ways, tonight. It’s a challenge he’s up for, a triumph he craves.

He catches Harley’s eyes over Peter’s shoulder, catches the glint in them, and they share a commiserating smirk; Tony starts again, with the other foot.

“How much can you take?” Tony hears as he scritches the bristle of his beard against the softness of Peter’s inner calf. “How long until you beg, Pete?”

Thing is, Tony would love to know, too. He wants Peter driven to the very edge -- he wants to hear his youngest son beg with reckless abandon, with not a fleck of compunction left.

Just a boy who’s shamelessly asking his obliging Daddy for the world.

Peter whimpers, nose crinkling in desperation and legs straining the tiniest bit against Harley’s hold. Under Tony’s lips, the muscles of his calf flex.

Not long, then.

“Look at him, Peter,” Harley murmurs, lips pressed to the sweat-damp skin of Peter’s neck. “Tell Dad what you want -- he’ll take care of you. Doesn’t he always take care of you?”

“Y-yes, always.” Peter nods, with nothing but heart-wrenching sincerity -- practically spilling over.

And _damn_ , if Peter’s intrinsic, boundless faith in Tony doesn’t warm his old heart from the deepest trench of a valve to the most ragged surface. “Tell me what you want, darling,” Tony says, and it comes out thicker than anticipated. “I’m listening.” A full pause. “Daddy’s listening.”

Peter falters, face shuttering in embarrassment, and judging by the way he chews his lips, Tony knows exactly what's his son’s mind.

“I’m waiting,” he teases, careful to keep his tone lighthearted and lilting. “It’s just me, baby. You can tell me anything, right?”

Harley picks up right there, his dirty genius of a boy. “Yeah, why don’t you tell him, Pete? Tell him what you told me, hmm?” Under his older brother’s persuasive words and the soft brushes of his lips, Peter squirms and his nose wrinkles cutely, but Harley just continues with a hint of playful derision. “We got you all ready for him, all squeaky clean, and now you’re not gonna ask?”

 _We_.

Tony’s head goes stupidly swimmy as he imagines all the filthy possibilities Harley could mean when he says ‘we’. That’s -- _well_ , he’ll definitely be thinking about that a _lot_ more, later.

“Harley’s right, sweetheart. Why don’t you tell Daddy what you want?” Glancing down, he skims his fingers along the inside of Peter’s thigh and along his taint, teasing dangerously close, everywhere but where Peter wants him most. He drops his head down and blows a stream of warm air against Peter’s hole, drinking in the barely noticeable way it flares and flutters, hungry for an experienced touch, asking to be devoured. “Cause it looks like your body knows what it wants, even if you’re not saying it, baby.”

“Ask him, Pete,” Harley goads, “I promise, it’s gonna be so good, he’s so fucking good at it, you’ll _love_ it.”

“Daddy,” Peter huffs out. “Please…”

“Yes? Please _what_? You’re a smart boy, use your words.”

“Please… eat me out, Daddy.”

Well, _fuck_ , hearing such lewd words in the wispiest and most sugared of tones is temptation personified, and it’s nearly enough for Tony to just give in already --

\-- but he then remembers the vulgarities his youngest had spewed on the other end of the phone, and Tony decides he wants to hear _more_. He wants it in person, wants all the dirtiness, wants to bear witness to the utter filth tumbling from Peter’s lips.

“Elaborate for me,” he urges, as he lays his thumb against the twitching pucker of Peter’s hole, applying just enough pressure that Peter chokes out a harsh exhale. “Be a good boy and tell Daddy what you really want.”

Peter breaks, _finally_. “I want you to lick me open, Daddy,” he rushes out, “I want your mouth on me, I want your tongue deep in me, I want your fingers, and your _cock_ , where nobody’s ever -- ” He breaks off and flushes a bright red.

“Has no one else ever touched you there before, darling?” Tony asks, massaging down with his thumb, just to watch the wrinkling of Peter’s forehead, the scrunching of his brow, the unconscious parting of his lips. “Never?”

The thought makes Tony’s head all cottony. The thought fills him with a dark possessiveness. _Mine_ , he thinks. _Mine to pop, mine to wreck_.

“Nuh-uh.” Peter shakes his head frantically. “Never.”

“Not even Harley?” Tony raises an eyebrow and shifts his gaze from Peter to his eldest in questioning.

“Other things, yes,” the blond divulges with a cocked, challenging brow, “But not this. We were waiting for you.”

Wordlessly, Peter nods his agreement.

That’s... _wow_. It stuns Tony, and more. Not that he would ever think of Peter differently based on virginity, or that he expected or felt entitled to Peter’s firsts, but… “ _Fuck_ , Pete,” he murmurs, “That’s…”

There are no words for the tempest in his mind, dangerous and dark and raging. The waters are id -- pure, carnal id. He wouldn’t dare voice any of it.

Turns out, he doesn’t have to.

Because Peter does.

“You really think I’m so pure?” Peter questions, light as a breeze, but with an unspoken agency -- an undercurrent of strength and intention. “If you could hear the thoughts in my head -- I’m nasty, Daddy. I’m the worst boy, the dirtiest boy. I want so many filthy things -- I’ve wanted them forever -- and I want them from _you_. I want _you_ to fuck me stupid until I'm nothing but your dumb cumslut son, until I'm only yours and Harley's and ruined for everyone else."

Heaven help him, those words are already wicked as they are, but when uttered in such an oxymoronically sweet-tempered voice? They hit just that much _harder_ ; the impiousness strikes Tony in the gut, sharp and tearing like a bullet impact. “Alright, baby,” he breathes, trying to work around the shock that swirls low and scorching in his belly, far headier than he’d expect. “You’ve got it, then. You ready?”

He takes a second to lean in and drop another fleeting kiss to Peter’s lips, and then Harley’s as well, over Peter’s shoulder. “Keep him steady for me?” he requests, and smiles at the tiny noise of alarm Peter gives when Harley tightens his caging hold. Peter’s folded in half and pinned -- back to Harley’s chest, both legs held up from behind the knees.

But as prepossessing as the sight is, Tony’s done with dragging out the anticipation; he’s made Peter wait so long -- and not just tonight. He’s allowed his reservations to morph into ignorance, and some teasing is good, but Peter deserves _everything_ Tony can give, and _more_.

Peter deserves how Tony now drags his beard against supple, baby-soft skin as he trails down _low_ , until his nose is just short of brushing against Peter’s taint. _This is where I am_ , Tony reminds himself, _and lightning strike me down, but this is where I belong._

“You’re so pretty here, princess,” he reveres, rubbing against the fragile resistance of Peter’s hole. “My perfect boy and his perfect little hole.” Without waiting for a response, Tony rests one hand on the plump swell of each cheek and dives in, licking a hot, broad stripe, crack to taint to balls.

“D-Daddy!” Peter chokes out, and _fuck it_ \-- Tony’s new purpose in life is to wring bucket-fulls of those words and that exact debauched tone of voice out of his son. He buries his face between Peter’s cheeks and licks, slick and wet, against the quivering ring of muscle of Peter’s rim, teasing his son just the right amount that Peter begs, “Please, please, _please_ , I can take more,” just as Tony is dying to hear.

Tony hums his assent and proceeds to _feast_. He smothers his own face, taking his time to swirl over Peter's rim with slow laves, before pushing in further. Peter clenches deliciously hot around him, and Tony groans as he slowly fucks in and out with the pointed tip of his tongue. 

The rounded muscles of Peter’s ass flex under Tony’s palms, and his entire body shivers with incomprehensible pleasure. “Oh my god, oh my god, _ohmygod_ ,” Peter squeaks. The sound dies down as Harley furiously whispers in his ear, and then Peter is letting out a throaty groan, and he cries out “Oh, _fuck, Daddy,_ ” except Tony’s far too engrossed in the luscious, sloppy way Peter loosens around his tongue to pay attention to what his rebellious slut of an older son is whispering to their youngest and dearest.

“Daddy,” Peter pleads, and Tony seals his lips against the rim of Peter’s hole and sucks furiously with wet slurps, basking in how Peter squeaks and mewls at the sensation. “Please, _more_ , I can take more.”

“Add your fingers,” Harley helpfully chimes. “Fuck him open. Get him ready to take your fat cock. There’s lube somewhere to his right.”

“So crass,” Tony mumbles against Peter's ass, as he blindly feels over the sheets with one hand until he comes in contact with the cool plastic of a bottle. _Bingo_. As he warms some lube up between his fingers, he tilts his head upwards and questions, “Why are you so coarse with your words, Harley?”

“Because you like it, Dad.”

“Do I?”

“I know you do.”

He _really_ does. 

“And, because it makes Peter just that much sweeter,” Harley adds. Which, _true._ Peter looks balefully down at Tony, but it’s pouty and too cute, and Tony’s heart melts. “Don’t you think?”  

“Sugar and spice,” Tony agrees, glancing back down at his work in progress, prettily pink, shiny with spit and begging to be breached. “So fucking nice.”

Peter giggles; Harley snorts.

Tony grins and slips the tip of an index finger against the soaking wet of Peter’s hole, already glistening. “Do you trust me?”

“Always, Daddy,” Peter says, “Please, do it. I need your fingers in me.”

Tony does. Gently, he presses, and his entire chest clenches as he slides right in to the first knuckle; Peter makes a hitched, anxious noise, but his body is relaxed and yields the intrusion of Tony’s finger -- and _never_ has Tony imagined that when Peter says he trusts Tony, that it would extend to _every_ physicality.

Never would he have thought his youngest son’s body would accept him so easily -- the ultimate expression of implicit trust.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Tony coos, just the slightest bit choked up. “Taking Daddy’s fingers so good. You’re such a good boy.”

“Am I?” Peter asks raggedly, seeking the praise that Tony’s never been particularly stingy with. Quite the opposite, actually. Still, Tony’s learned that Peter’s insatiable. He’s always wanting more.

And as always, Tony gives more. “You’re such a good boy, letting Daddy in like this, such a brave boy.” He punctuates his words with a careful motion of his fingers, moving in and out, a little deeper each time, until the entirety of his digit can slide in easily. “Opening up so easy for me. Always curious to try new things, aren't you?”

“Uh-huh,” Peter nods, tongue peeking out from between his lips.

“You think you can try one more, then, darling?”

“Mhmm.”

Harley’s forehead creases and he looks at Tony with the slightest uncertainty; Tony remembers their first time. He remembers how Harley had, despite all his bravado, needed a longer adjustment.

Peter’s different. Not better, not worse, just different. Tony takes one look at his youngest and just _knows_. He feels the way Peter clenches around him and knows what Peter can take, in that natural, instinctive way a father understands his son.

Tony shoots Harley a reassuring smile, and he’s almost positive the overflowing of his heart shows through. It moves him, how his two boys look after one another. It moves him, that he gets to share this momentous occasion with them.

Harley smiles back.

 _Good to go_.

This time, there’s more of a stretch. Peter whimpers and squirms as Tony starts to work in a second finger, not from any genuine pain, but from a natural nervousness at the larger intrusion.

“It’s alright darling,” Tony mollifies. “Look at me, look at me. Relax, alright? I’m not going to hurt you. I'm just going to make you feel so good.” Peter meets his eyes, brown on brown, and his guileless gaze bores into Tony’s as if clinging to an anchor. “I’ve got you, baby. Daddy’s got you.”

“I know, I know. Keep going, I’m okay, Daddy. It's so good.”

Keeping close attention to Peter’s face, Tony tries again. His fingers slip in millimeter by millimeter as Peter incrementally relaxes. “Yes, baby, such a good boy for me. Just like that, there you go. A little more, alright?” Peter’s forehead creases as Tony slides in deeper and deeper, but there’s no pain, just a concentration that’s quite an alluring look on him. “If you could see yourself, Peter,” Tony husks, “all wet and pink and wrapping tightly around my fingers. This hole was made for me, wasn’t it? This hole was made for Daddy to fill.”

Between the whispered encouragements Harley croons against his younger brother’s ears, and the experienced, cautious working of Tony’s fingers, Peter opens up beautifully, relaxing enough that Tony wiggles in a third finger and works them deep, deep enough that he... can... just --

“ _Oh!_ ” Peter keens, entire body flinching. Around Tony’s fingers, he clenches, so fucking _tight_. “Is that--?”

“Yup,” Harley says, voice smug, before Tony can answer. “He’s so good at finding it. How does it feel, Pete? As good as I said it would?”

“Oh, fuck, even better,” Peter groans as Tony crooks his fingers again and again, each brush against his prostate drawing these little pleased noises out, until suddenly, Peter is gasping, “Wait, _wait_.”

“What’s wrong?” Tony stills his hand immediately, ready to retract them at a second’s notice.

“No, nothing’s wrong,” Peter quickly rushes out. “But Harley. Can you also..? I want you, too -- both of you. Together.”

“Okay,” Tony agrees. 

"Fuck yes." Harley vehemently nods.

(They’re both too accustomed to spoiling Peter rotten by now. How could they refuse?)

“Let’s get you moved, princess,” Tony suggests. Together, they get Peter laid out on his back, legs held up by his own two hands. “Can you hold yourself still?”

“Mhmm.” Peter nods, eyes glossy with intoxicated pleasure. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Good boy.”

When Tony offers Harley the lube, the blonde shakes his head. “I’ve got it, Dad.” He reaches down and shoves his fingers into his twin’s mouth. “Suck.”

Peter does so. Lewdly and eagerly, in noisy slurps and drawn-out swirls of a pink tongue around the slim length of his twin’s fingers.

“More spit,” Harley demands, and Peter obeys; in his effort, a faint trickle of saliva dribbles from the corner of his mouth. “He takes orders so well, doesn’t he?” Harley muses as he swipes away that dribble with the most tender of touches.

“He always does,” Tony agrees. He slips three fingers back in Peter's ass and scissors them in preparation, observing how Peter arches and moans as he's filled back up. “Whenever you’re ready, Harley.”

There’s a breath of suspended fragility as Harley lines up his fingers alongside Tony’s, like the stretch of a bubble or thin sheets of ice over a lake. Harley regards Tony with the faintest trepidation, seeking assurance.

“You’ll do wonderfully,” Tony is quick to assure --

\-- and at the same time, Peter, ever so intuitive, murmurs, “I trust you, Harley.”

Harley’s breath catches, at that. A faint sheen grows in his ocean eyes; he glances down with a determined concentration and carefully works the tip of his finger between Tony’s, their combined slickness allowing Harley to slide in knuckle-deep. His hand ends up cupped by Tony’s larger one, single digit curved snugly in the safety of Tony’s three.

“Fuck,” Harley whispers, riveted by the vision of their fingers -- father and son -- tangled inside his twin. “Oh, _fuck_.”

 _Indeed_ , Tony thinks, swept in a storm of emotion. Slowly, he moves his fingers, guiding Harley along with the motion. “Just like this,” he encourages, pushing Harley deeper and coaxing their fingers into a crook that has Peter crying out, hands tightening so fiercely over his knees that they grow white and bloodless. “You feel that?”

Harley nods. “Yeah, I do. Fuck, do that again, Dad.”

They do, several more times, and Tony watches Harley this time -- watches the way Harley stares, awed and fixated, as Peter's body shudders with each brush of his prostate.

“ _Wait_.”

Immediately, they both still.

Peter takes a heaving breath and says, “Fuck me. Now. Quickly.”

“Pete, what?” Harley asks, rather disoriented.

“It’s too much, ‘m not gonna last if you keep doing that, I need you to fuck me, _please_ , I need it, I need it, I need your cock in me, _now_.”

And, well, what else can they do but comply, when Peter begs so depravedly? That edge of unravelment to his tone has both Tony and Harley slipping their fingers free and exchanging the world’s most concise silent conversation. Smoothly, Harley shifts to cradle Peter’s head in his lap. As the twins whisper a soft conversation between them, Tony makes short work of his own clothes, blindly shucking his shirt and slacks before kneeling between Peter’s parted legs.

“Whoa,” Peter admires, gaze raving down Tony’s bare body, an there’s no mistaking the desire which crosses his features. “Daddy…”

“I know, right?” Harley concurs, leveling Tony with an unabashed, brazen stare of his own, in complete contrast with the soft wonder in Peter’s eyes. “Our Dad is _hot_. What a DILF.”

“Ugh,” Tony groans, though it’s not the first time Harley has mocked him with that cringy sentiment. “Don’t start,” he chides, as Harley dissolves into cackles.

“You _are_ very handsome, Daddy,” Peter adds, barely audible over his twin’s chortling. “The handsomest Daddy. Can you _please_ fuck me already?”

Even when the cheeky, precocious brat in him peeks out, it’s utterly precious. Tony finds himself grinning as he says, “Whatever you wish, sweetheart. Condom?”

“Don’t want one. Want you to fill me up with your cum.”

It’s downright _indecent_. If Peter’s newfound deviousness didn’t flood Tony with such dogged lust, he’d be shaken. “Gotcha,” Tony husks. “ _Coming_ right up.”

That makes all three of them snicker. _God_ , somehow they were all blessed with the same terrible sense of humor.

“Get on with it,” Peter whines, though, even as he giggles. His heels hook around Tony’s waist in an attempt to spur on the action. “Come _on_ , Daddy, don’t you wanna fuck me? Don't you know how many times I’ve fucked myself with my fingers, imagining it’s you? Don't you know how long I’ve wanted your big Daddy cock in me? You’re not going to keep your sweetest boy waiting, are you?”

“Who the hell taught you to talk like that?” Tony asks, even as he shoots Harley a faux-scathing glare.

Peter smirks, all mischievous and pleased, and says, “You know you like it, Daddy,” and, well. Tony can’t dispute that.

He lubes himself up generously, uncaring of how it drips onto the sheets -- those can be replaced. And when he looks up, his heart swells, threatening to explode out of his chest. Peter’s lustful gaze is fixed on Tony, on the cock he has in hand. His head is propped up in Harley’s lap, and both of his hands are raised on either side of his head.

And Harley? He’s holding Peter’s hands in his own. Their fingers weave tightly as they’d been in the womb, united in their experiences.

Tony’s pulse pounds as he settles his weight over Peter. “You alright, honey?” he asks, nose brushing against Peter’s cheek as he layers several kisses over the sharp line of his youngest’s jaw.

“I'm perfect,” Peter whispers, hips hitching as the head of Tony’s cock fits snug against his entrance. “Make -- ” His voice cracks. “...make love to me, Daddy.”

A spade is to be called a spade.

In any other situation, with anyone but Peter and Harley, the phrasing would taste far too saccharine to Tony.

But here? With Peter underneath him and Harley a steadfast presence at their side?

There’s nothing more fitting.

“Eyes on me, darling, I want to see you,” Tony murmurs, and he waits for Peter to blink and focus on him. “I love you, sweetheart." 

"I love you," Peter whispers back. "I love you, I love you, Daddy, more than anything. Do it, fuck me, give me your cock."

"Anything you wish, love."

Peter takes it so _perfectly_. As the head of Tony cock sinks into Peter’s wet heat, Tony witnesses firsthand how magnificently his baby boy falls apart -- the way his red-bitten lips drop open in a silent cry, the way his fawnlike features twist with agonized pleasure as Tony slides _home_ , inch by careful inch.

Tony can identify the gears working overtime in that smart brain, as none of the implications of _this_ escape Peter; in fact, they darken Peter’s lovely face as he’s further impaled on his father’s cock -- as his hands tighten in his twin’s and the faintest threat of tears makes itself known on his waterline.

“Oh, _Daddy_ ,” Peter bleats out, the syllables punched right out of him. “Yes, yes, _yes_.” Peter writhes at the stretch -- and it must be such a stretch because _holy fuck_ Peter is so, so tight and gripping around Tony’s cock, like a vice which is only trying to suck him in deeper. “Oh, you feel so good stretching me open with your fat Daddy cock,” Peter slurs, wrapping his legs tight around Tony’s flanks so his feet hook together. “More, please, _more_.”

When Tony finally bottoms out, Peter sighs, low and relieved. For several long moments, the youngest boy simply gazes up at Tony, dazed.

And then, those hooked heels dig into Tony’s back as Peter starts moving with shaky rolls of his lower body which nudge him up and down Tony’s cock in little, feeble increments. It’s _nowhere_ near enough -- Tony knows that, even without the whimpery little noises of effort which tumble from Peter’s lips as he futilely tries to find purchase.

“Baby,” Tony croons, as he grasps Peter’s hips in both hands, stilling them. He _tsks_ at the whine of protest Peter makes. “Use your words, sweet boy. If you want something, you gotta ask for it.”

“Yeah, Peter, use your words,” Harley throatily taunts, leaning forward to look down at his twin with a smarmy smirk. “Show Dad what I taught you; show him just how nasty you can be.”

Briefly, Tony wonders if it could get any filthier; he’s already been blindsided by Peter’s verboseness. And don’t get him wrong, he'll merrily listen to those nasty sentiments on repeat after repeat, but he can’t imagine how the bar could possibly be raised.

And then, his youngest son looks up with a naughty tinge to those brown eyes and says, voice sly and sultry, “ _Breed me, Daddy._ Make me _pregnant._ ”

Tony’s fingers clench on Peter’s hips to bruising tightness; a groan snarls low in his throat and his hips uncontrollably buck forward into Peter’s willing heat. _Fuck yes_ , he thinks, looking down at his baby, at his _soul_.

“You nasty little thing,” he purrs, sure that any second now, the roof will collapse and smite then in a sinful collective; the thought of filling his son with his incestuous spawn should revolt him -- not the complete opposite.

It’s sick. It’s wrong.

It’s too  _fucking good._

There’s no mistaking how the air in the room picks up a heightened charge which electrifies all of them, prickly and sharp, raising their hairs and further corrupting them with godless nihilism.

“Tell Daddy more,” Tony encourages.  

And _oh_ , is there more.

“I want you and Harley to take turns fucking me, filling me up, making me your little cumbucket princess,” Peter babbles, and in his scandalized shock, Tony’s body falls lax enough that Peter spurs him into the faintest semblance of a rhythm. “Start fucking me and I’ll tell you more,” Peter bargains, which earns an amused noise of approval from Harley. “Go _hard_.”

What other choice does Tony have, then? “Yes, baby, whatever you ask,” he rasps, and starts fucking into Peter in earnest, with deep, steady plunges that have Peter keening loudly, neck bared and eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure. “Keep talking, my sweet,” Tony urges. _Please, tell me. Tell me more._

“I want to be the pack bitch,” Peter gushes, words tumbling out all fractured from the jolting force of Tony’s thrusts. “So you and Harley can _use_  me and _fuck_ me and fill me up with your babies and make me a mommy. Forever yours -- your hole to breed, your hole to fuck, your hole to use.”

“Ours to love,” Harley proclaims, guttural and harsh. He's losing it; Tony can identify it in how his older son’s breathing changes, growing dangerously uneven. He can hear it in the edge to his words. Tony looks up from Peter, up to his eldest, and finds himself trapped in a gaze that’s overflowing with a burning, pained _need_.

And Tony _knows_.

 _Understands_.

This… this _everything_ is both too much and too perfect, and it’s sucking the air right out of his lungs, and of _course_ Harley is feeling the same, if not more.

“Wanna have your turn, honey?” Tony offers, heart in his throat. The thought of Harley fucking into his younger twin -- fucking into their _baby,_ into who Tony, as the patriarch of the family, had first claimed and plundered -- just about ends him right then and there. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and quells his hips, despite the whine of protest Peter makes; he _has_ to.

“I, uh, I didn’t know if…” There’s so much uncertainty in Harley’s gaze; Tony’s heartstrings twinge.

“I want you, Harley,” Peter avows, even as his hips cant unconsciously against Tony's. “I want you, too.”

“I just know... you and Dad…”

“Harley. Look at me.”

When their eyes lock, upside down and fingers still tightly intertwined, the world falls silent. It just them, twin to twin, heart to heart, soul to soul. Tony couldn’t say what passes between them, but it’s profound. Monumental.

When it comes to his boys, there isn’t one without the other. Tony knows that.

Then, Harley looks up. Judging by the unshed tears glimmering in those too-often guarded eyes? He knows that, too.  

“Budge over, old man,” Harley jokes, even as he sniffles. “You were always teaching us about sharing. Time to set an example for your sons.”

“Smartass,” Tony says, fondly. “Come here.” He stares down as he slips out of Peter, at the way his cock unsheathes with a slick, wet noise, at the way Peter remains gaping, hungry to take his brother’s cock.

He uses every ounce of his willpower to tear his gaze away, then shifts to kneel at Peter’s side, allowing Harley to occupy the vacated space between Peter’s thighs. “I hope neither of you expects me to last long,” Harley warns, as he makes quick work of lubing himself up.

“I don’t think any of us will,” Tony says, wryly.

Harley shuffles closer and carefully lines himself up. He draws a deep breath, jaw clenching in determination, and with one hand holding his cock and the other clasped at Peter’s waist, Harley lists forward. “Oh, _fuck,_ ” he hisses, absolutely gut-punched. “Oh,  _fucking shit_ , Peter -- you -- ”

It’s the most beautiful trainwreck in the world, Tony thinks. Harley, a quaking mess as he slowly presses into his twin, arms shaking and mouth slack with mind-numbed pleasure. Peter, wanton and spasming underneath as he takes the girth of his twin’s cock, feet kicking out, both hands scrabbling desperately for purchase -- for something to cling to.

“Kiss me,” Peter begs, and Harley throws his weight forward to rest on both elbows, swallowing down the rest of Peter’s pleas as their lips crash together. His entire frame covers Peter, blanketing his twin’s smaller body, and his hips roll in an erratic rhythm, unsteady and frenzied, vicious and claiming.  

It’s a divine sight -- sun-kissed, freckled skin moving against a flawless, pale complexion. Harley’s tan body over Peter’s ethereal frame, both of them moving in a chaotic tandem -- neither entirely experienced, but feverish with want, and _god_ , is it _glorious_.

Tony sees it for what it is: two halves of a whole, coming together, as they belong.

He clasps Peter’s closest hand in his own. Squeezes reassuringly.

Peter squeezes back, tight.

“Pete, Pete, _Pete_ ,” Harley mutters, stripped raw and precariously close to a coveting chant, uttered in time with the ramshackled rutting of his hips. “Baby, you feel so fucking incredible, I _can’t_ \-- I’m _gonna_ \-- ”  

Peter’s just as far gone. Tony hears the weak, pitchy whimpers, low in his youngest’s throat. Then, Peter forcefully breaks the kiss and looks up at his twin with utter adoration. “Cum for me, Harley,” Peter orders, voice butterfly-soft and caressing. “Fill me up.”

Harley does. With a broken sob and a violent lurch of his hips, he crests over and spills into Peter.

Then, he collapses downwards. Tremors wrack Harley’s body -- tremors and wet sniffles as he nuzzles against the crook of Peter’s neck. And Peter -- sweet, pacifying Peter -- breathes steadily through the haze of his own lust and wraps Harley in his lanky arms.

What feels like eons pass, before Harley’s asks, frail in a way he rarely allows himself to sound, “Daddy?”

( _What an infinitely precious word_ , Tony thinks. One son gives it freely, and the other makes him work for it, but every utterance of _Daddy_ is more valuable than the pouring of molten gold, than a rainfall of diamonds.)

Tony sweeps Harley into his arms and lays him on his back, even though Harley is getting rather big for him to carry effortlessly.

(He’ll never stop doing it. Never. He’ll always muster the strength to carry his two sons. Always.)

“You alright, baby?” Tony questions, leaning down to kiss away the salt of those few stray tears Harley hadn’t managed to suppress. “Should we hit pause?”

“M’fine -- just need a minute,” Harley mumbles, shattered from the force of his orgasm. “Go take care of Pete? I wanna see. I wanna see it like this.”

There’s a split-second where Tony nearly protests. But, he looks down, sees how Peter’s fingers are entangled with Harley’s as they lay side by side. He looks back up, into the watery, yet lustful edge to his eldest son’s gaze. _He’s telling the truth,_ Tony realizes. Harley really wants to lay at his Peter’s side and hold his twin’s hand through this culminating incident they’ve been unconsciously working towards.  

At the end of the day, Tony trusts Harley -- trusts the outspoken, brash boy to make this decision for himself. So, Tony turns to Peter, spread out in all his extravagant glory.

“Fuck me harder this time, Daddy,” Peter implores. “Don’t hold back -- just wreck me, use me.”

"Anything you want, darling.” Tony eyes trail down a path of pale skin that’s blotchy and pink with extended arousal. He lingers on pebbled nipples the color of disturbed rose petals, and the quaint hollow of a dainty belly button, and the frustrated red of a weeping cock that’s been neglected for so long -- just begging for a touch.

One that Tony will not give -- not this time, anyway.

“Look at you,” he marvels, gently nudging Peter’s thighs to catch a glimpse of Peter’s used hole, drenched and drooling with the milky white of his brother’s cum, “Absolutely dripping, already sloppy wet and ready to take Daddy. You’re such a little slut for it, aren’t you? My perfect little cumslut princess.” He runs his hands up Peter’s thighs and grips those slim hips, mouth watering as Peter’s cock jumps on its own, a dribblet of precum oozing until it falls in a thin stream and pools on Peter’s lower belly.

“Yes, yes, _yes_ ,” Peter just about crows, audaciously splaying his legs further and pulling them up. “Your shoulders, Daddy, please hurry, I’m begging you. I can’t wait any longer, _please_.”

As if Tony would have the heart to deny Peter any longer.

Hiking his son’s legs up so they’re resting over his shoulders, Tony slams into squelching, slippery heat and starts fucking his youngest, _hard_ , just as Peter had asked. “How do you like that, baby?” he just about snarls. “How does Daddy’s cock feel, splitting your pretty little ass wide open, fucking your brother’s cum deep inside you?”

Peter yowls, barely able to form words as he bounces with the savage impacts of Tonys’ thrusts. “D-Da -- ” he cries out, “Oh, _Daddy,_ y-yes!” He dissolves into a cacophony of incoherence -- little mewls and whimpers and ‘ _ah ah ah’_ s which are shaken loose by the battering force of Tony's fucking.  

“Can’t even speak, can you?” Tony husks, amping up his pace, mesmerized by the sight of Peter, the way his brown hair is matted to sweat-damp skin, the ruddy pink of his cheeks, the sheer pleasure which floods his features. “Don’t worry, Daddy knows exactly what you need. Daddy’s got you.” As he supports his son’s deadweight in his arms, Tony shifts him experimentally, a little bit at a time, seeking that perfect angle he knows they’re close to.

There’s no doubt when he hits it -- Peter wordlessly wails and his entire body reels; he practically surges off the bed, head lolling left and right in delirious pleasure, free hand tangling itself into the sheets.

On Peter’s left, Harley curls to his side and lays a steady hand flat over his twin’s chest. “Fuck yes, you’re doing so good, Pete,” he whispers. “You’re being so good for Daddy right now. Just a little more, baby. You’re so close, aren’t you?”  

“Feels good, doesn’t it, darling?” Tony questions, relentless as he continues fucking into Peter’s overtaxed, convulsing body. He keeps a tight grip of Peter to anchor the boy in place; he's falling to shambles, otherwise, utterly ruined and having lost control over his body. “Look at you, taking Daddy's cock so good. You’re gonna cum on Daddy’s cock just like this, sweetheart. I’m gonna fill you right up, add my load to your brother’s load. We’re gonna make sure it takes, get you all nice and pregnant with our babies, won’t we?”

There’s no warning when Peter comes, not that Tony expected otherwise. Peter’s been teetering on the brink for so long now; it’s unmistakable from the tension of his lithe body, the pitchy, feminine edge to those earnest cries.

One instant, Peter is rocking and being jounced by the pistoning of Tony’s hips, and the next, his cries break off into a devastated  _scream_. A rolling, full-body shudder tears through him, and with a strangled, gasp, his back bows. Between them, Peter’s cock twitches and gushes in blurts of white all over the trembling tautness of his belly and chest, over Harley’s hand that’s still laying across his chest.

“Fuck,” Harley hisses, lifting his cum-stained fingers to his lips, cleaning them off one-by-one.

Between _that_ motion in his periphery, and the vision of Peter -- wrecked and _so exquisite_ \-- as he comes undone, _and_ the relentless clenching of silky, velvety heat around his cock, Tony’s finished. He grunts low in his throat, and his hips slam forward as he’s milked for all he’s worth, cumming deep into his son's ass.

“D-Daddy,” Peter groans out as his entire body shakes and rattles. “Oh my _god_.” Tony holds still, thumb brushing in a hypnotic rhythm against Peter’s skin as the boy comes down, as he eventually blinks open his glossed-over eyes and lets out a soft, flimsy giggle. “God, Daddy, that was _incredible._ ”

“ _You’re_ incredible,” Tony murmurs as he slides out of Peter with a faint squelch. He knows Peter’s mind; he knows the sheer heinousness of the situation -- the taboo of their acts -- is catching up with his youngest as he lays in the aftermath, fucked loose and popped like the ripest of cherries, dripping with a combination of his father’s and twin’s spend.

Ruined for all others. 

Tony settles to Peter’s other side -- the side not occupied by Harley, and regards the puddles of cum splattered all over the planes of Peter’s belly. Inspiration strikes him, and before he can think it over, he leans in and cleans up the mess with several scratchy laps of his tongue. Peter wriggles weakly and chokes out a quiet whine. “Daddy,” Peter huffs, face scrunching. His lips curl in a lazy, blissed smile, like a pleased kitten. "That's gross." 

“Never gross, darling,” Tony denies, savoring the taste of Peter on his tongue. "You're my flesh and blood, and you taste _incredible_." It’s even better than what Harley had spit into his mouth before -- so much sweeter and more decadent when taken straight from the heavenly source.

“None for me?” Harley pouts, then, propping up on Peter’s other side, a burst of energy back in him. “Selfish, Dad.”

“Sue me,” Tony quips, unable to repress the lecherous smile which tugs at his lips. “I wanted more than that tiny taste you gave me.”

There’s a devious pause. _Shit_ , Tony thinks, at the downright evil look which crosses Harley’s golden features. _What’s he thinking?_

Harley moves impressively fast. In several maneuvers, he dives between Peter’s legs and buries his face.

Peter -- still too fucked out and boneless -- gives a faint exclamation of shock.

It’s fucking lewd. Harley slurps so noisily as he licks out the combination of his and Tony’s cum. He hums, loud and lascivious. Moans, greedy and indulgent. 

Under Harley’s tongue, Peter gasps and makes an urgent sound, and Harley knows what he's wordlessly asking; he snakes his way up Peter’s body until he’s hovering above Peter, face to face.

Expectantly, Peter opens his mouth like a baby bird awaiting it’s feeding.

Harley fills it.

He parts his lips. Lets the mess drip out of his own mouth, down in thick, drooly rivulets which splash all over Peter's lips and flicking tongue. Then, Harley swoops down, chasing the cum with a filthy kiss. 

Tony observes, openly, as the heterogeneity of cum and saliva mixes into one and the same between his sons' lips. There's not one ounce of shame in him -- not one ounce of regret -- because sinning like this? Feels too good to deny. If it’s for his twins, if he gets to love Peter and Harley in such a way and put such euphoria on their sweet faces, he'd do anything.

He leers as they separate -- as Harley pulls back with just the thinnest stream of saliva stretched between two sets of kiss-swollen lips, all rosy red, and he thinks that if it were five years ago, he’d be hard again. “My beautiful boys,” he praises, absolutely ardent in his corny sentiment. “My loveliest boys.”

Both heads turn towards him. Two sets of impish, devious smiles -- different yet perfectly matched -- flash at him.

“Want some, old man?” Harley goads.

Infinitely sweeter, Peter flutters his lashes and simpers, “Don’t you want a taste, Daddy?”

God, they’re _perfect_. Heinously perfect, utterly nasty and wicked, rotten to the core. The ripe fruit from Tony’s own poisonous tree. Like father, like sons; they were _made_ for this.

Tony grins, moving forward. “My _filthiest_ boys.”

_And I wouldn’t have it any other way._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, uh, multiple thousands of words of emotional smut. I appreciate you <3 Comments are welcome and will be very much cherished!! 
> 
> \---
> 
> As messy as I am on this site, I am 14,000,605x worse on my [Tumblr](http://sbiderslut.tumblr.com/). Come by my nasty domain, see me in my full heinous glory, and say hi! 💖💕


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